


A Text from Silent Hill

by rare_colours



Category: Sherlock (TV), Silent Hill
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, canonical fake character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:11:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rare_colours/pseuds/rare_colours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John receives a few text messages from Sherlock asking him to meet him in Silent Hill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Text from Silent Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Welcome to Silent Hill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/315174) by [Cleo2010](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo2010/pseuds/Cleo2010). 



> Yes, I know I am supposed to be working on another story and I am, but I've been thinking about this story for a long while.
> 
> As mentioned above, I have been inspired by Cleo2010's Welcome to Silent Hill, but the two stories are not related.
> 
> Also, my story is based on Silent Hill 2, meaning there are no Gillespies in here. Expect Sherlock spoilers from Sherlock Season 1-2.  
> I also admit I have seen the movie and am familiar with the game but haven't finished it... yet.

John wakes up to the sound of his phone. Groaning, he grabs his pillow and pulls it over his face. Whatever godforsaken hour it is, he doesn’t want to be awake yet. He has a pounding in his head, probably from a pub night with Mike or Greg, he isn’t sure. He knows he should be a bit alarmed by that fact, but the pounding in his head is quite enough, thank you very much.

There is another chime, cheerfully signalling a new incoming text message, and John swears as he wrenches the duvet off, pillow flying off his face, bare feet slapping the hard wood floor in momentum as he reaches into his abandoned coat’s pocket for his blasted phone. He should have turned it off last night.

 _ **Come at once to Silent Hill, if convenient. Bring gun. - SH**_ reads the first one.

 _ **If inconvenient, come anyway. I’m waiting for you in Silent Hill, John. – SH**_ reads the second, and John has to wipe his tired face, eyes still crusty from sleep. Typical Sherlock. He just couldn’t let John sleep off his hangover or at least wait for him until his head is working right, no.

“‘At once’ he says. ‘Even if inconvenient’, he says,” mutters John, searching for his slippers. Grumble as he might, he knows there is no question about it, as soon as he locates some painkillers and manages to dress himself he is renting a car and leaves for Silent Hill, “at once”. Wherever that godforsaken place might be.

***

It takes little over half an hour to get himself dressed and presentable. He shaved and combed his hair, but his eyes look bloodshot and tired, even though he is sure he managed quite a few hours of sleep. He muses, he shouldn’t drink so much anymore, he is not getting younger. His reflection in the mirror smiles wryly back at him. _Yeah, right. Fat chance, Watson._

He takes his wallet, his keys and his pistol, hides it in a saddle bag and with a last look at the flat opens the door.

Sherlock’s scarf catches his attention, because it’s still hanging by the door. It’s not cold outside, but neither is it warm. Sherlock must have been too preoccupied and forgot it, he concludes and stuffs the scarf unceremoniously into his coat pocket. Lucky he has John, or he would be in pieces by now, John thinks. And shudders. It gives him pause, but then his phone chimes again, and he decides not to waste time. Sherlock will be insufferable about it already, best to be quick and save whatever poor soul has to put up with Sherlock’s nattering at the moment.

He bounds down the stairs and is almost out of the front door when he hears the creak of Mrs Hudson’s door.

“John dear?” Mrs Hudson asks and looks at him with a quick frown. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right, Mrs Hudson. It’s just bloody Sherlock ordered me to meet him again. I’m on my way to Silent Hill, wherever that may be. I’ll try to get us back as soon as possible, but you know him, he can’t resist a good mystery until it’s solved to his satisfaction. See you, Mrs Hudson!” he practically escapes, because he is not sure how many times Sherlock will text him before he gets into a right strop.

He doesn’t look back to see Mrs Hudson’s face. He hopes she’ll forgive him on walking out on her like that.

He gets a couple sandwiches and the biggest possible tea at Speedy’s and heads for the car rental he and Sherlock always use.

In half an hour he is on his way to the little rural town of Silent Hill. He is so preoccupied by finding a route that takes him directly there that he forgets to check his third message from Sherlock.


	2. Journey to Silent Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is on his way to Silent Hill.
> 
> No Brit Pick, no Beta, and Silent Hill has been bodily moved to Britain. All comments are welcomed and cherished.

He has to pull over in a little village, because he is completely, utterly lost. He dearly misses Sherlock, who dishes out driving advice and reads any map like the back of his hand. This time, John has to navigate while balancing the map that is completely inadequate on his knees and sneak glances at it to make sure he is not missing his turns.

He feels a growing headache behind his eyes, a leftover from his hangover and also probably from stress. He wonders for the hundredth time what the blazes Sherlock needs to do in such a small, faraway, unimportant town. Money laundering maybe? Perhaps an escaped convict wreaking havoc? John really can’t imagine anything important happening in there to capture the interest of the consulting detective’s great mind.

He looks at his watch and notes that an hour has already passed since he started the journey and he can imagine all too well what sorts of dangerous things Sherlock could get up to in such a long time.

Still, he needs a better map, one that shows a straight route to Silent Hill, because the map he has been using has none. All the roads are either closed off or veer off as soon as they get even a little bit closer to the little town, and John is getting a bit fed up.

He stops at a little shop next to the road that has a rack of maps next to the shop window. He deposits the paper cup and plastic wrap of his breakfast into the little trash can nest to the peeling, once-red door and steps inside.

He selects a map that has the greatest details of the Silent Hill area and picks up a soda for him and an energy drink for Sherlock, because even though the consulting detective refuses to eat, he has to drink sometimes. He also selects a bag of homemade biscuits with what appears to be marmalade on them and brings them to the front, where the elderly shopkeeper is reading a book with a faded cover.

“Will that be all, dear?” she asks. She’s probably asked that a few hundred times already, and she sounds like it, although she also sounds rather kind.

“Yes, thank you.” He says and tucks away his purchases, save for the map and gives the old woman a charming smile. “I was wondering if you could give me directions. It appears there are no roads leading into the town I’m going to.”

The old woman nods and puts on her glasses. “All right dear. Could you show me where you want to go on the map?”

John shakes the map out and after a little search points out the town of Silent Hill. “Here”, he says helpfully, in case her eyesight is worse than her glasses. It wouldn’t be the first. “Silent Hill.”

The old woman looks up at him sharply.

“Why would you want to go to _that town_?” she asks in a voice that makes alarm bells ring in the doctor’s head.

“I’m meeting a friend there.” He says and wonders if he could afford a few questions before the old woman starts in on the rumours and gossip that’d mean John would have to rudely excuse himself. “Why?”

The old woman fixes him with a shrewd look. “It is a rather peculiar town. Nobody goes there. There was a fire there when I was younger. Now the town is abandoned. As I said, nobody goes there, except for a few, but they are also of the peculiar sort.” She looks down and gazes at the little dot on the map before dragging her eyes back up to rake over John’s face. “Is your friend, the one you’re meeting, still alive?”

John blinks. And blinks again. He knows his eyebrows are doing a funny dance, but he can’t help it. He also feels that this must be the mystery that has captured Sherlock’s interest so thoroughly.

“Of course my friend is alive!” he says belatedly, perfectly indignant. “Why wouldn’t he be alive? Is he in danger?”

The woman shrugs. “People say that strange things happen in that town, none of them good. If your friend is still alive, he might be in great danger." She pokes the dot with a glossy pink fingernail. "I didn't tell this story to many people, because they'd think I was a crazy old biddy, but it did happen. A few years ago, I had another customer just like you. He wanted to know a route to Silent Hill as well. He told me he was looking for his dead wife. You see, he received a letter from her. She wrote him that letter three years after she died.”

John can’t help but stare gobsmacked at the old woman. He stares at the small frown on her face, he notes the absence of a smile in her whole expression. Not joking then, unless she has a very good poker face, he thinks. Still, the story could be a mystery Sherlock is investigating, and by the sound of these rumours he might be in greater danger than John had first thought. _Bring your gun_ Sherlock said. John can’t suppress a shiver. He really hopes the younger man hasn’t done anything stupid. The _yet_ , of course, goes unsaid.

“Rather peculiar” John says with a nod at the expectant not the old woman has on him. “But I’m sure it sorted itself out. If not, I will tell my friend all about it. He is a consulting detective, he is all about mysteries. He might just be interested to have a look if he has some spare time.”

She nods and looks down at the map between them distractedly. She raises a withered, gnarled finger and points at one of the roads. “Take this road. There will be a block, and I’m afraid you’ll have to walk the rest of the way into the town, but it gets you closest. But I really wish you’d reconsider. Call your friend out too, if you can. Nothing good happens there.”

He smiles and shrugs good naturedly. “I wish I could do that. Sherlock, my friend, is really not the sort that could be persuaded not to investigate mystery, no matter what danger he might face up ahead. But thank you.” He folds up the map and looks around. “I’m so sorry to ask, but I’ve been driving for a long time. Would you mind terribly if I used the loo?”

The old woman gives him the key with a shake of her head and a distracted frown and he goes gladly.

The bathrooms are located at the back of the store and he goes about his business quickly. He washes his hands and his face, willing his headache away as he stares into the little mirror. And jumps back, when the mirror image shows him something rather disgusting. He can clearly see the urinal crusted with brown, the walls smeared with red and the pipes all rusting. For a moment he is sure there is something wrong with the room, but the next second everything is fine again, the room clean and worn-in, the lights a bit dim.

 _Must be the peculiar things she said,_ he thinks. _Get a grip, Watson._

He dries his hands and exits the bathroom. The woman is waiting for him at the front of the store, face anxious and worried as she takes back the key.

“You’re John Watson, aren’t you?” she asks, and John sees yellowed newspaper cuttings in her hand with the names of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He thinks he sees the “Hat man and Robin” picture in there.

“I am.” He admits with a grudging grin. “But I must go now. Sherlock is waiting for me in Silent Hill. I can just imagine what sorts of trouble he can get up to. Thank you for the help!” he adds and runs off to the car. He never looks back.

He doesn’t even think of the old woman’s worried frown or the weird, admittedly creepy mirror image of the little bathroom at the back of the store. Sherlock must be causing way too much trouble and John is not there to smooth things over. But not for long. John now knows the way, and he is not fazed that he has to enter town on foot. The only thing that worries him is that he has no idea where he should meet Sherlock.

He sends a text message, because Sherlock prefers to text. _**On my way, will arrive shortly. Where shall we meet?**_

In the next second, the text bounces back. John swears. He calls Sherlock’s number and leaves him a message, “I hope you turn your phone back on, because I’m on my way to Silent Hill right now. I’ll be there in about half an hour, I think. It’d be nice to know where we will meet up because I don’t relish the idea of running round and round looking for you. Text me back with a location as soon as you can. I’ll see you in Silent Hill, soon.”


	3. The woman in the Cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a woman named Mary in the cemetery and a thing in the sewers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no beta and no Brit pick either, I apologize for every last typo you might find.

He doesn’t notice the weather change until he is driving through rapidly thickening fog, but by then he is almost at the road block. Not surprisingly he almost runs straight into the ghastly thing. He curses and steps on the brakes so hard his teeth rattle with the stop. But the car, the rented car is fine. He really can’t afford rental repairs.

He stares out at the fog moodily. Then he checks his phone for the hundredth time. Still no messages from Sherlock. He had counted on the good weather in case he received no directions to run through the abandoned little town and spot the consulting detective, but in this fog he’d sooner trip on something and break his neck than spot anybody.

Furthermore, if he barrelled in there, shouting for Sherlock, he’d spook whatever Sherlock came here to investigate. He hits the steering wheel in badly suppressed anger. Bloody Sherlock and his bloody single-mindedness. He could only hope his phone was turned off by mistake and not because he was in danger – or his phone was in pieces.

He checks his bag, he has both drinks, biscuits and a sandwich still in its wrapper. Even if it takes hours to get to Sherlock he won’t go hungry. He checks his phone one last time, but there are no new messages from Sherlock. The third one he received today was apparently from Mycroft. He can’t tell why, but he feels impossible anger just seeing his name flash on the screen. He doesn’t delete the message, because he’d have to open it first. Instead he slips his phone back into his pockets. He has better things to do than deal with bloody Mycroft.

He wrenches the door open none too gently and steps out. The fog is thick, wet and unwelcoming. Seems like he’ll have to walk into the centre. He’ll start at the police office, he decides, if they have one. They probably do. Sherlock must have turned up there at one point. Even if the town is abandoned, there must be clues. John wishes he had Sherlock’s amazing deductive abilities so he could find the damn man.

He closes the door and locks it. He’s not stupid, those people Sherlock is after could very well steal their only means of escape, because John is certain Sherlock took a cab. For one thing, there are no vehicles nearby, and the old woman said this was the closest road. Sherlock would have known.

He sets the car alarm for good measure and steps past the road block. The fog gives him an uneasy feeling, every soft gust of wind brushing up against his face makes him shiver. The road beneath his feet is cracked and lumpy from disuse. This is not a town with many visitors.

After a minute or two, he is greeted by a rusty sign stating Welcome to Silent Hill. At last he has entered the town. He hopes he won’t have to stay long. Somehow this place feels off. Maybe it’s the abandoned feel that gives him a bad feeling, but he has been in enough abandoned habitats during his tour of Afghanistan. No, he knows this is something different. Over there, under the blazing, merciless sun he has grown something of a sixth sense (that really comes handy with Sherlock and his tendency to run towards danger at high speed), and this sense is now telling him he has entered a dangerous place.

He doesn’t know what dangers might lurk around the corners, but he itches his gun out of his hiding place at the bottom of his bag. He is on high alert, even considers to stick to buildings so he is not spotted, but _he_ can’t spot the buildings either, so it’s a moot point, really. The fog is too thick, he’ll just have to think quickly if he sees anybody. And find Sherlock as quick as possible. He’d feel much better about this whole place if he knew Sherlock is safe.

He walks at a sedate pace, hands free but ready to grab his gun any time. The sound of his steps don’t echo, the fog eats away at it, and for that John feels glad. At least that is useful about the damn thing.

He tries to train his eyes to see as far as possible, but this just means his eyes start to water so he gives up on it. In the distance he sees a big shape, and as he gets closer he sees it’s an old car, rusty with disuse, one car door open and broken. He stares around for any sign of a trap, but when he sees none he looks in quickly. There is an abandoned map of the town on the seat, gathering dust. He picks it up, it’s not like anybody will miss it.

The map thankfully doesn’t fall to pieces in his hands as he gingerly unfolds it, crouched low to make the worst possible target and surveys the layout of the little town. And he is rather disappointed. The map, in fact, is only about one part of the town called Southvale, but it is still better than nothing. Apparently the place has a hospital, a lake and a few apartment buildings. The rules out the coffee shops for now. Unless Sherlock is rooting around in the stock rooms, there is not much to do in them.

He refolds the map and pockets it, then follows the road. In a moment he comes upon gravestones. Apparently, he is in Toluca Graveyard, if he is in that part of town the map is of. A short search for a sign confirms just that and he starts at a brisk clip to leave the place. For some reason the gravestones make him uneasy.

He almost yells when a figure steps out onto his path. It is a woman, medium height in a tight blouse and pants. She seems unarmed and sad.

“Oh.” She says with a startled expression. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“No harm done.” John assures her. “It’s all fine. Do you live here?”

She shakes her head. “No. But my mother does… or did. I don’t know. I left my husband, you see. I wanted to find my mother.”

John doesn’t know what to say. They are, after all, standing in a cemetery. Looking for one’s relatives in a cemetery does not bring any happiness in his opinion. As the woman raises her arm to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ears he sees dark, purpling bruises on her wrists and upper arms. He doesn’t need Sherlock’s impressive deductive abilities to guess her husband was abusive. Good for her for leaving him, he thinks.

“And did you find her?” he asks in the end. That’s the only thing that seems polite enough.

She shakes her head and smiles wryly. “Not so far, but I haven’t given up. I do so wish to see her. And what are you doing here, uhm…?”

He mentally kicks himself. Years living with Sherlock must have abraded his polite exterior. “I’m sorry. John. My name is John. Actually, I’m also looking for someone. My friend.” He wants to say Sherlock, but isn’t sure it’s safe. Even if the woman isn’t connected to whatever the detective is investigating, she might still alert the criminals if she mentions the younger man’s name unwittingly. Best not to chance it. “We agreed to meet here, but he didn’t tell me exactly where. He’s tall, back hair, pale grey eyes. If you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

“Of course. And I’m Mary. Mary Morstan.” She nods distractedly. “I wish you didn’t go though. It’s not a nice town.”

He nods and smiles. He knows what she means, the town presses heavily on his nerves. He really doesn’t want to go either, but Sherlock is waiting for him. “Me too, but I don’t have a choice. He is expecting me.”

“Be careful then.” She says and walks past him to look at the gravestones on his other side.

“You too.” He nods and walks past her. Apparently, the town is not as abandoned as it looks. Whether Mary’s mother still lives here or not he isn’t sure, but it can’t be healthy, living in such a place. He just hopes the young woman will find solace somewhere.

He leaves the graveyard behind him, and soon enough he can see concrete flower pots and the outline of a building next to the road. It appears he is finally in the town, now he can start searching for Sherlock in earnest.

He has been walking along the road for a while before he turns a corner and sees a dark shape as it legs it away, its gait slightly off. John doesn’t know if he should call out to whoever it is, apparently they are slightly injured or have some sort of disfigurement. If he calls out the the wrong person it could turn out very wrong for him. Instead he runs after it intending to corner the runner, but no matter how fast he runs, the person keeps slipping past him.

In the end he loses sight of the runner but comes up at a dead end with something like sewer entrance that’s partially walled in. But past the rotting boards and piping he can see a dark shape moving and some sort of static noise that could mean a radio is on the other side of the boards.

“Hello?” He calls past the boards and pulls on it, because one way or another he will most probably have to climb in there. The board comes away in his hands and the dark shape twists and turns, but never answers. “Can you hear me?” John asks again, but there is no answer.

The doctor curses and climbs past the boarding, clutching the wooden plank with a few rusty nails still left in it. He hopes he won’t have to use it, but if the person in there is hostile, it’s better than a gunshot that might call in everybody and their mother. He inches closer to the lone figure and has only one shocked moment to stare at the _thing_ that’s standing right in front of him before it attacks, and John’s hitting it over what appears to be its head.

Four hits and the thing is down. John is wheezing, his stomach rumbling uncomfortably. He pokes the _thing_ with the tip of his plank, but it just flops lifelessly over. He crouches down to inspect it. The thing has two legs, a torso and what appears to be a head, but no arms or any sort of orifice as he can see. Its skin is a charred, scarred mess and it doesn’t look very human. John stands back up and stares out. “Just what the hell is going on here?” he mutters.

He also notices that the static is gone. He leans down and finds a hand-held, two way radio trans-receiver. It’s just lying there on top of a dirt without a reason. John hopes that thing he just killed stole it, although he has no idea how it would have managed such a feat. Either way, he lists it his ears and pushes a button in the hopes of catching any kind of human conversation. His hands might not tremble, but he is rather shaken up by this… thing.

The voice, however, that washes over him amongst the static, is undoubtedly Sherlock’s voice. “…turn…walk…please.”

“Sherlock?” John calls out, glad to hear his friend and not caring one bit that the _thing_ might have friends. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“…can’t…have to…this…all true… Moriarty…”

John feels frozen on the spot. “What? What about Moriarty? Is he here? Is it all about him? Sherlock are you safe?”

“…fake…tell Lestrade…I researched…discovered everything…you…trick” John shakes the radio in hopes of making the damn thing work because he has no idea, none at all what Sherlock is trying to tell him. “…stay…move…please…for me?...call…my note… people… note…John.”

The radio falls silent. John curses long and bitter. His only means to contact Sherlock, and now it’s gone. He doesn’t even know what Sherlock was on about, except to call Lestrade and maybe find his note. Also, he must have discovered something, but whether Moriarty was in the midst of this or not, he is not certain.

But he can call Lestrade. He takes his phone out and dials Lestrade, only to realize he has no signal. He curses and pockets his phone. Of course he won’t get a signal in a sewer. He surveys the scene one last time, but the thing is still there, unmoving and there are no clues nor useful objects like the radio. So he climbs out, clutching his plank. He hopes he won’t find another creature like this because that would mean some sort of genetic experiment… either that or UFOs, and he really doesn’t think the little green men have nothing better to do.

He tries dialing Lestrade again on the street, but with little luck. There’s still no signal. Of course not, why would there be? He briefly considers getting out of the town, and driving back the way he came from, but if he does he has no idea what would happen to the detective. He also has no idea how long he’d have to drive to get a signal.

Instead he pockets his phone and takes out his map. There is no sewer entrance on it, but as soon as he sees a street sign he can pinpoint exactly where he is. He hopes.


	4. Woodside Apartments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enters the apartment buildings stumbles upon another human amongst the monsters, and sees the Pyramid Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all typos and grammatical mistakes are mine, comments are welcome and cherished

John is trudging along a dirt road with nothing else but a rusty iron fence going right next to the road in view. For a tourist attraction, like the map he appropriated earlier claims, it looks rather bleak and unfriendly, he thinks. Wary of surprises, he doesn’t discard the plank, because it sounds like a very good weapon. He’s alert, more so now that he has had his first taste of the town and keeps an eye out for the monsters.

He realizes he should be glancing at the road sometimes too, just to make sure he doesn’t trip on bumps or clues or room keys he has just stepped on. John shakes his head ruefully. Sherlock, he just knows, would call him an utter idiot. He nearly missed a clue!

The key has a wooden keychain with the words _Woodside Apartment_ on it. The number is faded. John wonders if the owner dropped it by mistake or by hot pursuit, perhaps even running away from that _thing_ John had killed. Well, he hopes he killed it and it won’t just spring back to life, whatever it might have been. He pockets the keys and decides that as soon as he knows where he is he will check the place out. If he were in a town filled with enemies, the apartment building would offer a good hideout for both criminals and Sherlock. Either way, he will know more as soon as he finds the place.

He walks in complete silence, the soft sounds of his feet hitting the gravel and later the cracked road swallowed up by the thick, unrelenting fog. He doesn’t feel safe in the least, because he could be walking a few meters away from somebody else and not hear them. He could come face to face with a surprised criminal, or another thing like that weird creature in the sewers without much warning. Seeing distance is about 3 meters, he checks as soon as he comes across a looming building.

As luck would have it, on the side of the building he spots a faded street sign. According to it he is on Munson street, which will take him to the apartment complexes. He feels almost chipper until as soon as he folds his map he sees another dark shape moving just like the one he killed and readies his plank. His radio emits static and for a second he considers dropping the damned thing before every monster and their mother pinpoints his location. But he can’t. The radio might be his only link to Sherlock, so he will do no such thing. Instead he steps up to the thing that gives out a strange, hissing noise even though it has _no mouth_ and whacks it a few times until it topples for good and kicks it for good measure.

This thing is just like its predecessor and has no orifices, no ears, mouth or even eyes, and John is starting to feel very dumbfounded. Just what are those things? He hopes Sherlock can tell him later. First though, he’ll have to find Sherlock.

He meets one more of these things on his way to the apartment buildings, but this time he sidesteps it, jogging a bit to see it the things can be dodged, and notes happily that indeed they can be. Also, he thinks the static might respond to the things, the radio only emitting it when they are close by. That would be a very useful thing, John thinks and is happy he opted not to drop it. He also tries to listen in, but there are no sounds and Sherlock is not trying to get in touch with him as far as he can tell. He also checks his phone for a signal repeatedly, but he doesn’t have one. Predictable.

He stops at the entrance of Woodside Apartments and checks his gun in his pocket, the radio secured in the other and readies the plank. Even though the radio is silent, he isn’t sure if the walls can somehow dampen the presence of monsters. Also, criminals might be right past the door. John is not taking chances. He needs to find Sherlock and take him far away from this place. And never come back. John really, really doesn’t like this town.

The door creaks from disuse and John is left blinking as he enters, because there are no lights inside. The windows built high up give only enough light so John can make out shapes, but not much else. The electricity has been turned off a long time ago, of course. He closes his eyes as soon as he is certain there’s nobody around and waits a few seconds so his eyes can adjust to the dark. As soon as he can see more, he spots a map of the apartments pinned to the wall and he copies it to the back of his folded town map with a pen quickly, aware that he is an easy target with his hands full.

When he finishes he fishes out the key he’s found and starts up on the stairs, hoping to find the correct door. The first lock is obviously broken and no matter how hard he tries he can’t force the damn thing open, even though it’s old and according to normal physics, it should splinter open. John begins to feel nothing is normal in this place.

 _You’re mental, Watson_ , he chides himself. _Next thing you’ll expect to be abducted by the little green men._ He shakes his head and curses Sherlock’s impatient streak. This all wouldn’t have happened if he could have just waited for John. Of course, that would be asking for too much, the doctor knows.

He sighs quietly and tries the next door, with success. The second door opens and he is treated to a surreal view. There is a shopping cart inside the sparsely decorated room, and right inside the cart there is a shotgun. John can’t help standing there gobsmacked. Has he stumbled right into the criminals’ hideout? He holds his breath and listens to voices, sounds or any other indication the room is habited by anybody, but he finds none. The place is deserted, so he plucks the shotgun and puts it away in his bag with the barrel sticking out. Any weapon in his hands instead of his enemies is a good thing, he reckons.

He walks around the room inspecting it, but he can’t deduct anything like Sherlock. On the table, on the other hand, he finds a torch and he takes it, fixing the little light on his jacket so his hands will be free. He hopes the light won’t be missed terribly, or if so, they won’t be able to come after him.

He sees nothing else that could be useful in the flat so he exists and moves to the next one, but it’s locked. The key he has doesn’t open it either. Typical. Forcing the door doesn’t help here either. He sighs and moves to the next door, but it’s also locked. He moves down the corridor, trying each door until he steps on a key. The number isn’t as faded as the other one, and he recognizes a room number he has already passed. He jogs back and opens it.

The room looks normal, although the wallpaper is peeling and looks like it has been stylish and modern in the 70s or 80s. He can see a desk, a chair, a bed and even a TV. He finds shotgun bullets on the desk and surprisingly in the chair and he pockets those. They could be useful. He wonders if he could fell one of those things with one bullet. Maybe he will try if he is cornered. He also finds a room key and what appears to be the key to the starway to the upper level from what he can tell from the near illegible letters on it. He isn’t sure how many keys he can actually carry without clanging loudly with every step. He also finds a first aid kit, outdated but still useful and he packs it away in case he or Sherlock might need it. He hopes they won’t. He also checks the bathroom, but it’s empty.

He tries the new key on the next lock and it springs open. Inside he finds more bullets and a health drink that has gone bad ages ago. He moves onwards trying to fit keys into locks whenever he can in case he gets lucky. He steps on no more keys, but finds another door wide open. He walks in and hears static. He spots the dark lump in an armchair. It’s… staring at a TV. It’s old and it’s actually running, showing static. On what the TV might be running, John isn’t certain, but the thing doesn’t seem inclined to get out of the armchair so John walks out slowly.

He takes a brief moment to stop and stare at the wall opposite him. He knows this whole town doesn’t make sense. He strongly suspects there’s some sort of hallucinogenic in the air he must have come into contact with like they did in Baskerville, but he feels none of the symptoms. He is not panicking, aside from worrying about Sherlock, his vitals are normal and he is not sweating profusely. But there is no other explanation he can come up with. His resolve to find Sherlock pushes him forward. He will have to find a clue, any sort.

He unlocks the stairs and goes up. The building smells of mildew and rot, but not unbearably so. Mostly it smells like an abandoned building. He tries the first door, and it opens with the key he’s found. Inside he finds two things dead, their dark blood seeping into the carpet. He looks around and listens, but nobody seems to be around. He finds more shotgun bullets on the ground under a table and a coil of rope in a desk drawer. His bag is filling up rapidly, but he doesn’t know what he won’t need later on. Apparently getting through this town is not an easy feat.

He leaves the room and immediately he hears the static. He sidesteps the creature and opens the next door. It’s empty, save for another dead thing. He finds a room key and a bottle of water. There are more shotgun bullets on the bed. He pockets them. It all feels surreal, salvaging for random objects, but the bottle of water looks unopened, bottled recently, so he stuffs it into his bag with some trouble. Who knows when he will need clear water?

The creature is waiting for him outside, but he decides to try and raid every room nonetheless. The first door is boarded up so he moves onto the next one, the creature behind him losing interest. He tries the lock and it gives. Inside, he is shocked to find, is a blond man. He is sitting on the bed and looks up at John with utter surprise.

“Well get in, mate, the whole town is teeming with monsters!” He hisses at John and John steps in.

He feels cautious, but the man on the bed doesn’t feel threatening. Not until John steps closer to the centre of the room and sees the gun lying next to the blond. John stops abruptly and tries to look at ease. The man might just be another person lost in the mist.

The man on the other hand notices his discomfort and glances down. “Oh, don’t worry. I only shoot those blasted things. I can’t get anywhere without them swarming me. How did you get in here anyway?”

John shrugs. He has only seen a few of those things. Maybe the blond man has already finished off most of them, although the body count of dead monsters he’s stumbled upon isn’t that high either.

“I found a room key.” John replies in the end. It’s true.

“Great. Must have dropped it. Good thing those things don’t have arms or I’d be in trouble.” The blond seizes John up. “I’m Sebastian.”

“John.” They don’t shake hands, but John doesn’t mind. They stare at each other mutely for a few seconds, John noting idly that Sebastian is in fact in army fatigues. “What are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The man swipes his hand down his tired looking face. “I came here to kill the man who killed my friend. My only friend. I heard he was here, but the only thing I’ve seen so far are these monsters. Christ, this town is fucked up.” He shakes his head with disgust. “What about you then, John?”

John has to agree. He also has to wonder if the man is dangerous. He doesn’t want to alienate him, but at least it’s not a criminal after Sherlock or John. But John also has to wonder what he would do if someone killed Sherlock. He has to admit he’d probably do the same.

“I came here to meet my friend.” He hedges. He does remember seeing on the map that this town used to be a tourist resort. “We met here a long time ago and became good friends. We thought to revisit the place but… this is not how I remembered it. Also, I can’t find him.”

The blond sighs and smiles wryly. There are flakes of dark, dried blood on his skin, John notices. “This is fucked up.” Sebastian says.

John has to agree.

“I wish Jim was here. I bet he would’ve loved to see how this town worked.”

The doctor freezes up, but the blond isn’t looking at him. He is staring at his hands, dirty and crusted with dark blood. John feels suspicion blooming in his mind. It can’t be, can it? He isn’t sure Sebastian hasn’t realized who he is, but he hopes it is true.

“Is Jim that friend of yours?” he asks with that suspicion growing.

“Yeah. He was brilliant, you know. Brightest man I’ve ever known. And then that man, Holmes, killed him because he was jealous.” Sebastian buries his head in his hands and John’s heart clenches in sudden pity when he hears the man sob, even though he feels rooted to the spot. Moriarty is dead? When did that happen? Or better yet, how did Sherlock pull it off?

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” He offers with a voice surprisingly steady for the things he is thinking, but he really feels sorry for this man. The blonde’s grief is staggeringly real, and he wouldn’t wish a loss of true friend on anybody, even though he doesn’t wish Moriarty’s death undone. Just what else has he missed? And what the hell is going on with Sherlock? “So how long have you been here?” He asks in the end.

“A day I think? I’m not sure. This pace doesn’t seem to change. I haven’t seen daylight or night and I have been here a while… I think.”

That, John thinks, is worrisome. Just how long has Sherlock been missing? He really wishes he could remember the previous night, but try as he might, he can’t make his memory work.

“Have you seen anybody else while you were here? Maybe even the man you were looking for?”

Sebastian shakes his head vehemently. “Nah. Just the monsters. And I’ve seen plenty. I really can’t imagine how you could walk around looking so clean after all that. Hell, for that matter Holmes could be dead already. I really hope he is.” He adds and leans back on the bed. “If you want to stay I don’t mind, but it could get crowded easily.”

John really doesn’t want to stay, even though it’d help a lot to keep an eye on the blond. He very, very briefly considers killing off the man, but it feels _wrong_. Also, Moriarty had a way of sucking people in. It could be that Sebastian has been deceived just like poor Molly had been. Not to mention Sebastian has been reluctant to leave the flat because of the monsters, although John really hasn’t seen that many.

“No, thank you. I need to find my friend.” He finds himself saying. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” He adds, because the second best thing would be to keep an eye on the blond at all times so he couldn’t cause Sherlock harm, or find him first.

Sebastian regards him with an incredulous look. “Are you crazy, mate? There is no way I’m going out there anytime soon! But I’ll wish you the best of luck. I’ll tell you though, be careful with the one with the pyramid head. He has the biggest damn knife I’ve ever seen. It slows him down a lot so if I were you I’d run like the hounds of hell were chasing me.”

John isn’t sure he heard right. Pyramid head? Could it be a helmet? Has Sebastian gone mad or has this town? After all, he would’ve looked strangely at anybody who described the thing John has disposed of with his handy plank not long ago.

“Thanks.” He nods at Sebastian and moves to the door. “Good luck.” He adds because what could he say?

There is a creature waiting for him right in front of the apartment door and a couple dead ones lying at his feet. They were not there when John entered, of that he is certain. He sidesteps the creature and tries the next door, but it’s locked. There is a stairway leading to the next apartment building so he tries the lock, and it gives. The creature hasn’t lost interest yet so he slips past the door and shuts it, putting his back against it for good measure. Still, the static, the sound now muted by all the knick knacks he has collected, is not gone.

As he looks up he is met with one of the weirdest tableaus he’s seen so far in his life.

There is a Pyramid headed monster in the middle of the stairway turn. It has a huge, metal pyramid head. It is also towering over… well, everything. It has a naked torso with cuts and old scars showing, and is wearing a leather skirt that looks… well, it’s certainly not fashionable, sewn with big, clumsy stitches and the leather looks off. It is bloody and John is quite certain it hasn’t been properly treated. He isn’t sure but he thinks he can spot mildew on it. Also, next to the creature is a knife as big as a sword, Sebastian wasn’t kidding. It is leaning against the wall, because both hands of the pyramid headed thing are occupied.

John cranes his head to see what the monster is doing and he instantly wishes he hasn’t. But he also can’t look away, staring in horrified fascination. The Pyramid head, as the blond aptly named it, is apparently humping, or maybe even raping a twitching thing in its hands. It looks like a bleeding mummy, body covered in bloody, dirty gauze, tufts of dark hair visible at the top of its head. It also looks male by elimination, because of its flat chest. The thing is flailing around, head and arms twitching, which seems to be a common denominator amongst monsters in this town. John isn’t sure but he can hazard a guess that the mummy isn’t actually a willing participant. He wonders if he should break the two apart, but then again he is almost certain they then would team up to attack John, and he really, really doesn’t care about the mating habits of monsters. The mummy can complain to his buddies for all John cares.

He tries to find an escape route that doesn’t involve disturbing the pair when he sees a picture stuck on the wall staring at him next to the Pyramid head, with Sherlock’s handwriting on the bottom.

John swears under his breath. Well, there’s nothing to it, he will either have to wait until the pair are finished with their antics, or run in, get the picture and escape while they gather their bearings and try to attack him. Just as he is weighing the pros and cons, the big monster groans, sounding like a metal bull and… tears the mummy thing apart. John winces as dark blood and gore splatters the staircase, but keeps in the startled yell. However, he springs forward on instinct, trying to avoid the squishy bits on the floor as the Pyramid head spots him.

John avoids a swiping arm as he tears the picture (fixed on the wall with duct tape) off the wall and jumps away as the thing reaches for its knife. He slides on some innards but manages to catch himself on the railing, his hand coming away sticky and bloody, the other still clutching his precious clue. He curses and tries to gain momentum as he hears the sound of metal sliding on metal: the monster readying for a stab. He indeed runs like the hounds of hell were chasing him, right past the entrance door until he is outside and he can’t hear more.

He is wheezing, so he tries to get his breathing under control as he listens to the silence of the radio and looks around. He seems to be in the clear, thank god. He straightens up, wipes his hand on his trousers and inspects the picture he risked his life for. It is a picture of a sunny, pleasant little park, Sherlock’s scrawl naming it _Rosewater Park_. He checks his map an indeed, it is there, not too far from the apartment buildings, just two street corners away. 

He is glad he found Sherlock’s message, and has to wonder if the key he stepped on after the sewers was Sherlock’s subtle way of sending him clues. Then again, how would have Sherlock known John would go there? He only went there because he followed the monster. He is feeling less and less sure about everything. But Sherlock might just be waiting for him in the park, and John would never leave Sherlock somewhere dangerous all alone.

John double-checks the route to the park and puts away his map. It’s one of his most useful possessions, it wouldn’t do him good to lose it even though he has memorized some parts of the town’s layout already.

He sets out cautiously to Rosewater Park, hoping against all hope to finally locate Sherlock.


	5. Rosewater Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all grammatical errors and typos are my own, I apologize for them  
> all replies are welcomed and cherished

Getting to Rosewater Park is not too hard. A few times he comes close to getting nabbed by one of those lovely charred creatures, but mostly he just has no make sure not to walk into walls nor to trip over the lumpy road. He spots the first hedge relatively soon.

The hedge and all the plant life seems to be rather in need of sunlight. It all seems rather sad, leaves dry and withered, the potted plants in big marble pots sad skeletons. Strangely, they remind John of that one sad plant he got from a thankful client both he and Sherlock forgot to water.

Of course Sherlock had never even considered watering poor Arthur, as they’d lovingly named it, but John just forgot. He felt rather guilty for it for a few days, then mournfully binned Arthur and there were no more words about it. By mutual agreement, since then, the only plants in their flat were Sherlock’s mould cultures. And that unfortunate spot of mildew growing on Mr Whatshisname’s right foot. In their fridge.

The soft noise coming from the other side of the hedge drags John out of his reverie. Right. Monsters, Sherlock lost, he really has the survival instincts of a national geographic lemming. He readies his plank and inches forward.

In just a few steps he is in the park with a view that would be, on any other normal, non-foggy day breathtaking. Now though, there is only fog and a railing one can lean against to view the lake all covered in thick fog. Also, there is a person leaning against said railing, jumping slightly as he takes in John’s advancing form.

The relief that floods John as soon as he spots the familiar silhouette is staggering. Sherlock is missing his Belstaff coat and blue scarf that’s still tucked into John’s coat pocket and… John has to blink a few times to make sure… yes, Sherlock has apparently dyed his hair blond. And is sporting a turtleneck and a marine blue cardigan. _What the buggering fuck?!_

“Sherlock! Thank god I’ve found you! This bloody town is a nightmare!” is what John ends up saying to Sherlock, who pulls himself up to his full height primly and stares down at John with a frown. “Seriously, Sherlock, we need to leave this town. I don’t care what the case is, this is too dangerous. I’ve seen a monster twice as tall as a normal human being with a _pyramic head_! And you wouldn’t believe the size of the knife it carries with him!”

He shuts up, because Sherlock is not saying a thing. In fact, Sherlock is staring at him as if he had grown a second head. John is slowly growing more and more agitated. Sherlock is still staring at him with his pale, piercing eyes, mutely, eyebrows arching dangerously high on his forehead.

“What?!”

“I’m very sorry, but I cannot place you. Have we met before?” Sherlock asks all polite as you please.

John blinks. _Of all the bloody, possible times…_

“Sherlock. I’m holding onto my sanity by sheer will alone here. Could you please, _please_ tell me what the buggering hell is going on?”

Sherlock swallows convulsively and shakes his head. A pale hand comes up to smooth bright blond hair back down, giving it a shiny, plastic look. “I am not exactly sure. And my name is Rathbone. Basil Rathbone, Captain.” He adds, a touch cattily.

That, if nothing else brings John up short. The name sounds familiar. He thinks he has heard Sherlock use it as a disguise before. Yes, he definitely has. But why would Sherlock use it now with John? He has no reason to, there is literally nobody around, as far as John can see.

“Are there others around?” John asks quietly without acknowledging Sherlock’s indignant answer.

“Not as far as I know.” Sherlock replies. “I haven’t seen a single human being besides these abominations for as far as I can remember.”

Ah. Now John begins to have an idea. “And how long is that?”

The other man scratches the back of his head. “Not long, I’m afraid. I seem to have a little problem with my memory. I admit I’m not too certain of quiet a few facts regarding my current predicament.”

“Must be a head wound,” mutters John and steps closer. ”Would you let me take a look?”

The man tenses, as if he is considering taking a step back, so John stops. This might just get a bit tricky, he reckons. Because nothing is easy with Sherlock.

John has seen cases like this. Short term memory loss with an extra side dish of mixed identity as a gift. Sherlock was probably posing as Captain Basil, got hit over the head and now he believes that’s who he really is. No simple memory loss for this deranged detective, of course. Well, John just has to play this safe then.

He smiles and tries to look as threatening as one of the potted plants. With a rusty plank with nails in it. _Oh bugger this._

“Look. I have a friend who looks just like you. I was searching for him. I have a picture of him with me.” He cradles the plank at the crook of his elbow and fishes out his wallet with the picture of the first magazine cover he and Sherlock were on. He admits it was a tad bit narcissistic of him to put it in there, but apparently, it has its uses. He flashes it at the blond man, who blinks at it and gapes.

“Amazing.” Sherlock whispers. “The prefect likeness...”

“Yeah, about that… you see, he is a detective. Sometimes he uses disguises. One of them was Captain Basil Rathbone. We called the case The Adventure of Black Peter. Look, I know this is a lot to take in, but I think you hit your head. This is why you can’t remember…”

The man regards him with clear distrust, to put it mildly. John tries not to be offended as the man sizes him up for battle.

“All right then,” John capitulates. “Let’s just call you Basil for now. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to about your identity, but let me believe what I want too, all right?”

The man nods briskly. Apparently that’s all John is getting right now. Still, this is progress. John looks around, but there are still no stumbling, charred figures around, which is a wonder and a godsend at the same time. He’s not looking at a gift horse in its mouth, but he is not going to stand around here with Sherlock for much longer if possible either.

“Right. Good.” He licks his lips, trying to find the perfect way to persuade Sherlock with amnesia to trust him. Good thing he spent so much time with the irritating bugger or he’d be in trouble now. Clear logic. Clear logic should work with this lunatic. “So… Whoever you are, we can agree that I mean you no harm. I actually came here to get you out of this place. As I’ve said. So…” He wipes his face. The stare Sherlock is still fixing him with doesn’t waver. Right then. This is just Sherlock. “So I propose a truce. I want to get you out of here, you want to get out of here, how about you come with me so we can get back to my car so we can both leave this godforsaken town?”

The man nods slowly. “Yes, that’d be good. But only on one condition.”

John is so glad he almost sags against some of the dead foliage. He rights himself with a twist. This is no time to go soft. Just because Sherlock is willing to follow him out of this damned place doesn’t mean the monsters have suddenly evaporated.

John is actually too glad to have passed even this hurdle to even ask. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

The man quirks a small smile at him. “Your name. I don’t think I’ve caught it.”

John laughs. He doesn’t know what lifts his spirit more, finding Sherlock alive and safe in the park, earning the detective’s trust anew or that smile, but he feels like he could take on even the Pyramid Head.

“Sorry about that. It’s John Watson. But call me John.”

Sherlock nods. “Call me Basil then. Or Sherlock, if you must, but I respond to Basil much quicker, obviously.”

“I will try, but can’t promise anything. Worst case, I yell _oi you_. “John smiles at him ruefully.

“Duly noted.” The younger man grins. “So how are we going to get past those things? The last time I tried to get out of this park they swarmed the entrance, though they were reluctant to come inside for some reason.”

John looks around for a weapon, but can’t find anything they could use right now. Naturally, he is not willing to give Sherlock his gun, nor his shotgun. Knowing Sherlock he’d miss the shot and throw the gun at the creature’s head in annoyance when the bullets run out. No, that would be suicide.

“Tell you what. I’ll go first and kill anything that moves. As soon as we find a weapon like mine you can use we’ll equip you too. But right now, just trust me.” The look on ~~Sherlock’s~~ Basil’s face is sceptical, so John adds, “I was in the army before I got shot and got discharged. Honourably. You can trust me to protect you. I came here for you. And even if it’s a mistake and you are Sherlock’s twin, I’ll still protect you. So let me do this.”

Sherlock just sighs, his pale eyes slits as he regards John but nods in the end.

They set out thus, John in front, plank ready with Sherlock behind him, vigilant and scanning their surroundings for anything that could be used as a weapon. As soon as they leave the park, three of those shambling creatures set their sights on them. John hits and whacks and kicks when they are down until they all stop twitching. ~~Sherlock~~ Basil is unharmed but prissy that he has no weapons. John still won’t hand over the shotgun. Who knows when they’ll need it?

They come upon some boarded up buildings with the nails rusty and the boards cracked, but they are still impossible to pry apart. It makes John more certain this town is not logical in the least and Basil even more frustrated that he cannot acquire a weapon.

They are slowly making their way down the street, because apparently _now_ those pesky things are all taking notice of John and Sherlock and attack them at every turn. John won’t admit, but his arms are already shaking when they get near the hospital. But that’s not all, because just as John finishes bashing a few more twitchy charred heads in, he spots the man in fatigues, Sebastian a corner away, fighting his way past an army of the twitchy things himself.

Before knowing what’s past the murky, dusty door of the hospital entrance John grabs Sherlock, readies his much used plank and breezes past before they are spotted. God, he hopes they were not spotted.


End file.
